The Shirts
I ADMIT IT. I’m not the most stylish guy on earth. I dress simply – not that I’m Amish or anything like that. In winter I wear turtlenecks and sweaters and in summer I wear Hawaiian shirts. And I’m cheap.
Most of my Hawaiian shirts aren’t really Hawaiian – they are $9.99 Wal-Mart Wonders. The closest they’ve ever gotten to being really Hawaiian is that they were just a few aisles over from the grocery section stocked with cans of Hawaiian Punch. I’m not fussy.
Of course, I do have a few shirts that are of higher quality than the ones I buy. My wife buys those from real stores that have salespeople and jewelry that won’t turn your body green. My purchases tend to either fall apart during the spin cycle or melt in the dryer.
The reason I bring this up is that I recently acquired two new shirts – well, new to me.
A few days ago one of the Usual Suspects said that his wife bought him a couple of Hawaiian shirts and that he can’t stand to look at them…and would I like them?
Never one to turn down a freebie I said “Hell, yeah. Have they been washed?”
“Yeah. I’ll bring them in tomorrow.”
Cut to the next day at the Chapel of St. Arbucks.
I was in my pew with coffee when “Mr. Take My Shirts, Please” came through the door. He was empty-handed.
I couldn’t help myself.
“Hey, where’s my shirts?”
What followed just blew my mind.
When I asked him about the shirts he was approaching the Usual Suspects Pew with his coffee in hand.
“Hey, where’s my shirts?”
With those words still hanging in mid air he stopped in his tracks, did a quick left turn and headed out the door, still holding his coffee, and jumped into his pickup truck (What else? This is Indiana.) and drove away.
This very unexpected and strange reaction was just too good to let it pass unmolested.
Obviously my shirt supplier had gone home to collect the goods and this presented an opportunity.
Skippy, an adjunct Suspect/Motorcycle Dude who comes into the Chapel frequently had an idea. He suggested that, while our Co-Suspect was gone, I should move my car to another part of the parking lot so that, upon his return, he would think that I had gone and left him, literally, holding the bag.
Twenty minutes later Mr. Shirt returned, pulled into his usual parking spot and immediately noticed that my car was gone.
We really shouldn’t do things like that to a man who has both a Pacemaker and a personal arsenal of over 1100 guns (I kid you not.).
Luckily for everyone concerned he soon spotted my Toyota parked by the front door. He was smiling when he came through the side door but there were still wisps of steam curling around his ears. He was smiling alright, but I could see in his eyes that he was calculating how many rounds of ammunition he would need to… well, you know – open up some seating opportunities in the Chapel.
By the way –
The shirts are pretty cool. One is Orange and White and would make you visible in a dense fog. The other is an Orange and Blue mix with 1950s style hot rods emblazoned on it – not truly “Hawaiian” but, what the heck, it’s a freebie.
I don’t want you to think I don’t have standards. I do – it’s just that they are pretty low compared to most people – and a few dogs.
Down the Hall on Your Left 